


Comprehension

by canistakahari



Series: in which Bones gets to Iowa in an unorthodox way [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, Blow Jobs, Character Study, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/522131">Misunderstanding</a>, in which the way Bones got to Iowa was revealed. Jim realizes Bones isn’t kidding about the whole thing, and wants an explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comprehension

It doesn’t take Jim long to figure out McCoy isn’t actually joking.   
  
He is, after all, pretty fucking smart, a fact he likes to remind McCoy of on an irritatingly regular basis. Fitting examples would be like when he scores near to perfect on a practical simulation run that he didn't prepare for, or manages to do astrophysics calculations in his head while holding a beer in one hand and a PADD (loaded with what McCoy suspects is porn) in the other.   
  
Because he's a deeply annoying bastard, Jim ends up pestering McCoy for about an hour or so as he tries to read journals and make notes on all the never-ending domestic and alien diseases and viruses and plagues that simultaneously terrify and thrill him. Jim flops around on McCoy's bed, unable to sit still for more than a damn minute, and when McCoy studiously manages to continue ignoring him—though it’s getting harder and harder and McCoy is starting to think increasingly more murderous thoughts—Jim concentrates his efforts into becoming as whiny and shrill as possible.   
  
McCoy is seriously considering whether the weight and heft of the PADD in his hand will be satisfying enough if applied with judicious force to Jim's thick skull when the other man finally stands up, determinedly strips off his pants in evident impatience with one smooth movement, and yells loudly, "Right, Bones, you are  _way_  too much of a cranky old man for me tonight, and I’m  _going out_."  
  
McCoy grunts, and doesn’t turn his head. He is not giving Jim the satisfaction. He is  _not_.   
  
He can, however, feel Jim watching him. It's always a vaguely disquieting feeling, because when Jim watches people, he really  _watches_ , focused and intense, until he makes McCoy's skin crawl under such scrutiny. He stares, now, and eventually prompts McCoy to snap, "Dammit Jim, take a fucking picture!"  
  
Jim's gaze obediently slides off him, and then McCoy can hear the soft, muffled sounds of Jim changing his clothes. He’s abandoning his uniform for a dress shirt, un-tucked, and what Jim refers to as his _going out pants_  and McCoy privately calls his  _slut pants_. Black, leathery material, skinny legged, low-slung.   
  
McCoy pointedly doesn’t watch him slip into them. Jim primps and preens for a moment, standing in the doorway of their adjoining bathroom, and then bustles out, calling, “Don’t wait up, honey,” and their room falls blessedly silent.  
  
“Son-of-a-bitch,” mutters McCoy, rubbing violently at his eyes. Now, thanks to Jim fucking Kirk, as he tries his damnedest to concentrate on xenobiology and the ethics code, there's no doubt in his mind that he'll instead be assaulted by visions of Jim out prowling the bars in his ridiculous pants, charming the willing panties off bevies of excitable young ladies.  
  
Imagining Jim scoring some tail is  _not_  how McCoy had envisioned spending his Friday night.  
  
He spends about five pathetic minutes staring sightlessly at his work before deciding to give in. McCoy gets off his rumpled bed, cracks his back, and then shucks down to his boxers and undershirt, stretching out on his belly over the mattress. He drops the (stunningly dull) xenobiology PADD—if McCoy hears another instructor lecture about the prime directive with impassioned reference to the fire and brimstone that will rain down upon them if they break it, he will load a hypospray with whiskey and inject it  _directly into his bloodstream_ —and selects one he’s filled with an indiscriminate assortment of trashy space novellas. Choosing one at random, McCoy begins to read, and forces thoughts of Jim out of his mind before he has to commit himself to the Academy's psychiatric ward.  
  
The next time his mind resurfaces, it’s just squeaking past 0300 hours on the clock between their beds, and someone is quietly unlocking the door to the room.  
  
McCoy blinks, startled, and looks back over his shoulder at the door. His elbows vehemently protest the movement; sometime in the last few hours, every single accursed muscle in his body has stubbornly locked up.  
  
“Bones?” whispers Jim, slipping soundlessly into the room and closing the door softly behind him. “You’re still up?”  
  
McCoy grunts, and pops his shoulders.   
  
“No, Jim, I've just mastered the fine art of studying while I'm actually asleep, and plan on selling my top secret strategy to slackers like you for millions of credits and retiring to Risa," he deadpans, fixing Jim with a flat stare. "I decided to read a novel. Not that this pile of crap really deserves to be called a  _novel_." With a disgusted expression, McCoy flings the PADD a little distance away from himself and lays his head down on his arms, pointedly shutting his eyes.  
  
He hears the rustle of clothing, and then Jim’s weight is settling on the bed beside him. A hand reaches over him, to pick up the PADD. Jim hasn’t been out to the bars, McCoy realizes this immediately. He doesn’t smell like booze, smoke, perfume, or sex; instead he just smells like he’s been hanging around out of doors.   
  
Jim makes a small, curious noise, as he presumably goes over the PADD, and then McCoy hears him set it down on the shelving unit that sits between their beds. Jim taps the desk lamp off, and then his weight shifts as though he’s about to get up and let him sleep, which is something McCoy abruptly decides he doesn’t really want Jim to do.   
  
“Where’ve you been?” McCoy asks, less out of a desire to know and more to just keep Jim near him.   
  
As hoped for, Jim pauses, and he leans back, settled comfortably next to McCoy. “Oh, just out. Here and there,” he replies, in that vague, cheerful tone he always slips into whenever he’s unsuccessfully hiding something.  
  
McCoy snorts. “Just  _out_? Yeah, thanks for that, Jim, I was having trouble figuring out what happened when you left, hours ago. I thought to myself, there's a word for when people leave, but golly gosh, I just can't remember what it is.”  
  
When Jim is like this, McCoy has to take him by the hand and lead him down the path to conversational enlightenment.  
  
"Please pardon my lack of specificity before," McCoy continues, because Jim doesn't seem at all inclined to jump in any time soon, and McCoy would like to finish this conversation before he starts finding grey hairs. "Care to tell me  _where_  you went out?"  
  
“Just out. I told you,” repeats Jim, and McCoy stiffens apprehensively when he feels a change of pressure above his back, like Jim is about to settle a hand there. But nothing happens, and McCoy relaxes, vaguely disappointed.  
  
“You didn’t go out to the bar, Jim," explains McCoy patiently, "Because you don’t smell like you took a bath in a damn keg, you're still in possession of all your teeth, there's a distinct lack of blood on your clothing, and you don’t reek of someone else’s cheap perfume.”  
  
“Oh,” says Jim, his tone actually surprised, like he didn’t realize McCoy noticed these sorts of things about him. Like it's easy to obliviously ignore when Jim comes home loose-limbed and grinning, drunk and giddy from a good fuck, or relishing the pain of a black eye and split lip while McCoy mutters at him and waves a tricorder in his face.  
  
“Caught me, Bones," he admits, shrugging in a what-can-you-do manner. "I was going to go out, maybe get laid and remind myself I'm young and virile instead of old and grumpy like you, but then I stopped by the bridge, and ended up just sitting for a while.”  
  
That explains the scent caught in Jim’s clothing and hair; windblown and briny. He smells like the sea.  
  
McCoy shifts, propping his chin up and opening bleary eyes to look at Jim.  
  
“You look terrible,” Jim says, his eyes fixed on McCoy again in that unnerving way. McCoy doesn't enjoy feeling exposed, and Jim makes him feel like a body laid out on a slab. “If the book was crap, why did you keep reading?”  
  
McCoy rolls his shoulder, a reasonable facsimile of a shrug. “I got distracted by the epic levels of purple prose and intergalactic space drama.”  
  
“Listen, Bones,” starts Jim, his gaze moving away like a skittish animal. That's new. Usually McCoy is the one to look away first. He begins to fidget with his hands, and McCoy wonders what Jim spent hours thinking about, sitting by the bridge near the ocean.  _Probably girls_ , his mind supplies vindictively, and he scowls.  _Girls with big tits and easy smiles and long legs up to_  here.   
  
“What?” drawls McCoy, his previous annoyance with Jim's constant need for attention returning as his brain begins to run angry, jealous,  _totally batshit insane_  circles. “Spit it out, Jim, I’m tired and sore and, as you already pointed out several times this evening, cranky as a lame horse.”  
  
Suddenly, Jim’s hand settles on McCoy’s shoulder, and it’s so unexpected that he startles, his eyes going wide.  
  
“You weren’t, uh, joking, were you," says Jim, an eyebrow raised questioningly. "Before, when I asked how you got to Riverside.” Jim’s hand is solid and heavy on his back, and McCoy tries not to tense. Oh. It's  _this_  conversation.   
  
“I never joke, Jim,” rumbles McCoy solemnly. “I’m a very serious man.”  
  
“Bullshit,” laughs Jim, and McCoy begins to wonder if Jim’s hand on his back is gauging his reactions, reading the nuances of his body language. “You’re like a caricature, Bones.”  
  
“Well, thanks, Jim,” mutters McCoy dryly, frowning into the bedspread.   
  
"I'm serious," Jim goes on, "You're—you're eyebrows, and a scowly mouth, and crazy eyes. That's you. If someone ever drew you, that's what you'd look like, and they'd have to add a speech-bubble saying, 'DAMMIT JIM, I'M A DOCTOR, NOT A CARTOON CHARACTER.'"  
  
McCoy snorts in surprise, lifting his head from his arms to squint at Jim. "Yours would just be a massive head, Jim, no body, because of your truly impressive ego."  
  
"You accidentally said 'head', there, instead of 'dick,'" Jim points out helpfully. "Just thought I'd fix that for you."  
  
McCoy chuckles helplessly, because it's late, and Jim's hand is still resting comfortably on his shoulder. He should shake him off, he knows that's probably the logical thing to do, but McCoy ain't no damned Vulcan, and logic never really applied to Jim anyway. He stays put, enjoying the heat, and waits for Jim to get back on track. Now that he's gotten a hold of his subject, he's not going to let it go, even if McCoy grumbles and snorts and tries to weasel out of answering, every single step of the way.  
  
"So. Riverside," Jim says quietly, right on schedule.  
  
"Riverside," agrees McCoy non-committally. "What d'you wanna know, Jim?"   
  
"Shit, you are serious," breathes Jim. His hand grips McCoy's back harder. "Bones. This is not reconciling with my image of you at all—someone paid you for sex, so you could get to the shuttle? You do know what that's called, right?"  
  
"Desperation?" McCoy suggests, raising an eyebrow Jim probably can't even see.  
  
"No.  _Prostitution_ ," Jim corrects, sounding amazed. "Whoring. Hooking. Hustling!  _Escorting_."  
  
"Nobody called me up on a goddamned sex-line and asked me to show up in heels and fishnets, Jim," McCoy says firmly, as he sits up a bit on his elbows, ignoring the burn of abused nerves, and turns his head slightly to glance at Jim.   
  
"Then how did it go down?" asks Jim. He's staring down at McCoy with a completely unreadable expression. Normally, McCoy can read every thought passing through Jim's head, not because Jim Kirk is naturally the open, trusting type, but because he's prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve if you know which side of his shirt to check on. McCoy thinks he's known him long enough to catch the subtleties, read past the honest front Jim puts out to make people comfortable around him and see what's actually going on inside his head.   
  
McCoy shrugs, more and more aware of the warm, heavy weight of Jim's hand on his shoulder. He's not quite sure when Jim's proximity started making him lightheaded, but everything about Jim confuses McCoy, and he's  _mostly_  learned how to deal with the rampant frustration of maintaining a friendship with the man. Mostly.  
  
"I stood on a street corner like a damn fool and waited until someone approached me," he eventually replies, with suitable reluctance.  
  
It's the truth, or as much of it as he's willing to provide, at the moment.   
  
Jim's eyes widen infinitesimally. McCoy only just refrains from laughing at his googly expression.  
  
"This was before the shuttle," Jim repeats, as if he's struggling to get the details exactly right in his mind.  
  
"No, it was after, in the bathroom on board," McCoy spits out, rolling his eyes. "About a week beforehand, Jim. I was still in Atlanta. Shuttle was gonna be leaving from Riverside. I'd just left the lawyer's office, after signing my whole damn life away, and one of those sweet-talkin' recruiters got to me after I'd spent a couple of hours at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon. It seemed like a good idea at the time," he finishes, voice dry.   
  
"Starfleet, or hanging around on street corners?" quips Jim.  
  
"Both," snaps McCoy. "Didn't have a single credit to my name, Jim. Starfleet sounds real good when finding a place to sleep, a decent meal, and clean clothes start to be real pressing concerns. Plus, I've got my M.D., so I even qualified for special privileges. It seemed perfect. I just had to get to it."  
  
"And you didn't think to ask if Starfleet could foot the bill?" Jim presses on, incredulous. "Bones, what you did—I'm not judging, it's just, that isn't a standard response.’Oh hey, I'm light on cash, maybe I'll just  _whore myself out_?'"  
  
McCoy stiffens a little, scowling, and Jim's hand shifts a little further down, to the small of his back, reassuring. "I'm just trying to understand," murmurs Jim encouragingly.  
  
"It ain't your business, Jim," McCoy says gruffly. "Let it go. Please."  
  
Jim is silent above him, for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then his hand slips from McCoy's back, and his weight rises from the bed.   
  
"Get some sleep, Bones, you look awful," is all he says before disappearing into the bathroom and pulling the door closed behind him.   
  
McCoy rubs his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath.  _Definitely_  not how he wanted to spend his evening, dammit.  _Fuck_  James T. Kirk, and his endless curiosity. Fuck it all.   
  
Exhausted, McCoy childishly shoves the remaining PADDs off his bed, letting them clatter to the floor, and then barks, "Lights off!" to the overhead unit as he crawls in between the sheets and sullenly bunches up his pillow beneath his head, punching it once before curling up in an angry ball.  
  
It's his own stupid fault for making the joke in the first place. He should've known it wouldn't fool Jim.   
  
He waits for Jim to come out of the bathroom, sulking under the covers, but staring hard at the thin line of the light beneath the door doesn't make him emerge. McCoy is too tired, too old,  _too damn old for this shit_ , and he must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, he's blinking blearily awake and the dorm room is flooded with early-morning sunlight. Jim is asleep on his back in the bed opposite, with a leg hanging carelessly over the side, and an arm splayed across his face.   
  
McCoy tamps down on his sleepy urge to crawl into bed with Jim and turns over instead, pulling his pillow over his head.  
  
The next time he wakes, Jim is up, sitting at the tiny table in their pathetically cramped dollhouse-sized kitchenette, loudly slurping cereal and bent over a PADD. He looks up when McCoy stirs, raises his spoon in greeting, and shouts, "Bones, my good man! Good morning!"  
  
There isn't a hint of the unreadable expression from last night that McCoy had struggled to identify. So if they're ignoring it ever happened, which suits him just fine, thanks, then today might not be horribly uncomfortable after all. McCoy groans, rolls onto his back, and rubs his eyes until he's briefly seeing in bright stabs of Technicolor.   
  
"You're too damn bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a Saturday morning, Jim," he grumbles, sitting up in bed. He slaps ineffectually at his hair, trying (unsuccessfully) to get it to lie flat.   
  
Jim just smiles sweetly at him, shoves another spoonful into his mouth, and points at the clock. "It's two in the afternoon, Bones, so your quaint idiom doesn't apply. Late night, remember?"  
  
"Oh," sighs McCoy. "Right. No chance of you letting this go, then?"  
  
"Probably not," grins Jim cheerfully. "You know there's no escaping me; I'm like a tractor beam."  
  
"More like a giant squid," mumbles McCoy, knuckling at his eyes and smothering a yawn.   
  
"Seriously, Bones, I know you're a fanatic about privacy," Jim continues, "But the fact that you made the joke at all makes it seem like you wanted me to know—"  
  
"Oh, hell no, Jim, do  _not_  try to psychoanalyze me!" interjects McCoy irritably, blinking at Jim and feeling the first scowl of the day creeping over his face. "I did not subconsciously try'n tell you shameful bits of my past just so you'd ask me about them! I figured you'd laugh it off and move on because it seemed too absurd, but I suppose I misjudged your bullshit detector."  
  
"Won't you feel a little better, getting it off your chest?" Jim wheedles, twirling the spoon between his fingers, cereal forgotten in favour of annoying McCoy. "You've never told anyone, right? I mean, who could you tell?"  
  
McCoy just stares at him, stares at Jim's earnest blue eyes, his painfully young face, and snorts roughly, turning away. "Personal boundaries, Jim, ever hear of 'em?"  
  
"In stories, sure," teases Jim, with one of his blinding grins, the kind he uses when he wants to charm a girl right into his pants. "Mostly I just assume they're myth and legend, lost to the sands of time."  
  
"You would," McCoy sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. He remembers his mother telling him that if he kept at it, his eyes would get stuck that way, staring into his skull, and thinks she probably would've revised her theory on eye-rolling if she'd ever met Jim Kirk. "You're right. I haven't ever told anyone, but it's not what you're thinking."  
  
"You've got no idea  _what_  I'm thinking, Bones," Jim points out, and there's something else, there, in his voice. McCoy is getting steadily more frustrated that he's having this much trouble reading Jim.  
  
"S'pose I don't," snaps McCoy, crossing his arms stubbornly.   
  
"Well?" prompts Jim expectantly.  
  
"Well  _what_?" barks McCoy. "I told you, Jim, this isn't your business! I don't have to tell you anything, or explain myself. My experiences in prostitution aren't exactly my proudest moments!"  
  
He pauses, reviews what he's just said in his head, and huffs a curse under his breath. Shit. Leave it to Jim Kirk to fluster the hell out of him.   
  
Jim's eyes go comically round. "Experiences?!" he echoes, astonished. " _Moments_ , plural?"  
  
McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose. He is not going to strangle his best friend. He is  _not_. "Jim," he says warningly. "Drop it.  _Please_."  
  
Jim seems to consider doing so for all of five whole minutes, and McCoy rubs his temples, warding off a headache. Enthusiastic crunching of cereal filters into his ears, and then, through a full mouth, Jim says, "How many times?"  
  
He can't win. He just can't  _win_ , and Jim Kirk is going to drive him up the damn wall before McCoy even has a  _chance_  of graduating with sanity intact. So he gives in, like a coastline crumbling under the repetitive strain of erosion.  
  
"Twice," he sighs, flopping back on his bed and covering his face with his hands. He briefly considers smothering himself with his pillow, and decides he won't give Jim the pleasure of seeing him snap. "Just twice."  
  
"Now we're getting somewhere," Jim says brightly, and McCoy imagines him tapping notes into his PADD and pretending to be a psychiatrist.   
  
"Oh yeah? Where's that?" mumbles McCoy. "It's a dead end, Jim, there's nothing to see or learn, here. I'm a doctor, not a goddamned whore, and I don't think the first time even counted because it was a total fucking mistake. An accident. I didn't know I was going to get paid, I thought it was—I was young, drunk, and it was my birthday. I just thought I was getting picked up."  
  
Jim, to his credit, doesn't laugh. He actually doesn't say anything at all for a little while, nor does McCoy hear him eating, and eventually he opens his eyes, peering through his fingers to turn to Jim, who is still sitting at the table, looking back at him thoughtfully.   
  
"That sucks," says Jim, and there's nothing but genuine, honest-to-God sympathy in his voice. "I mean, that really sucks, it's—that's kind of sad, Bones. I'm sorry it happened."  
  
And hearing it like that, well, fuck. McCoy stiffens, closing off his expression so none of the anger and embarrassment and bone-deep regret he's been suppressing and ignoring can seep out. He clenches his jaw and says, neutrally, "Forget it, Jim. It was stupid."  
  
He appears to, for a brief, shining second. And then:  
  
"How old were you?" Because the kid doesn't know when to fucking  _stop_.  
  
"Twenty-one," McCoy replies mechanically.   
  
Something in his tone, or lack of it, gives Jim pause; his eyes meet McCoy's, and he looks sincerely apologetic. It's enough. McCoy relaxes a bit, shaking his head.   
  
"I was in a bar, I'd just got off-shift from the hospital, and I had no friends because I was younger than everyone in my residency. And this guy—" he sees Jim flinch in surprise, and presses on, "—this older man, well-dressed, charming, polite, said he wanted to take me home. And I thought—I didn't really think, I just—why not, you know? Why not."  
  
"So it was a dude," Jim says slowly. "I thought it might have been, but I figured you for pretty straight, Bones."  
  
McCoy shrugs. "Both times, men. You're not the only one who doesn't discriminate, Jim," he grins wryly.  
  
Jim laughs in surprise, and then he's pushing his chair back and coming around the waist-high divide between the bedroom area and the kitchenette. McCoy doesn't say anything, doesn't ask him what he's doing, and Jim reaches the end of the bed and crawls up onto it, kneeling on the blankets by McCoy's legs.   
  
"It makes a little more sense, now, though it's still fucking weird, Bones," Jim says brightly. "Why it occurred to you to try it, intentionally, a second time. You had a previous reference point."  
  
"How analytical of you, Jim," drawls McCoy.   
  
Jim doesn't reply, just smiles and rocks back on his heels on the bed. "I feel like we've bonded," he declares, gesturing wildly with his arms and overbalancing a little. Which means one of his knees ends up between McCoy's legs, and his hand lands on the mattress just by his hip. They're nose to nose, and Jim's eyes are unreal, this close up.  
  
McCoy's mouth goes dry, and he freezes, unsure if pulling back would be— _impolite_ , especially when this doesn't seem to faze Jim at all. Instead, Jim's eyes crinkle a bit as he huffs out a chuckle, and his hand is suddenly threading through McCoy's hair.   
  
"Your hair is so stupid after you wake up," he says softly, tugging at a particularly stubborn lock that still refuses to lie flat.   
  
McCoy worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, forehead creasing with a confused frown. Sometimes, he wonders if Jim thinks at all, or alternately if he plans out everything, mapping out potential outcomes long before he makes his first move. Either one seems plausible, especially when Jim has previously revealed himself to be astoundingly good at pretending he doesn't know what's going on when in fact he's organized the whole fucking thing days in advance and manipulated events exactly right to get things how he wants them.   
  
"Your hair is always stupid," McCoy retorts, and he enjoys the look of mock-pain that crosses Jim's face.  
  
"You hit below the belt, Leonard McCoy," Jim accuses. His hand moves down from McCoy's hair to ghost over his lips, thumb tracing down his jaw. "Also, you need to shave. Like, endlessly. I swear, it's as if your follicles absorbed some sort of super growth hormone, because your  _stubble_  has its own stubble, and your five 'o clock shadow never actually goes away."  
  
"Some people like the rugged look," says McCoy, and he's not sure where the playful growl in his voice came from just now, but Jim looks delighted with it.   
  
"Bones," he laughs, and he's inching closer on the bed, fractionally so, enough that McCoy gets tired of waiting and grabs Jim and drags him into his lap.  
  
"I know what you want to ask me," he says quietly, tugging Jim's head close and pressing his lips to his ear. "G'on, you can. I'd tell you anything, Jim, I think you know that, you manipulative little reprobate."  
  
"I know," Jim admits, with an apologetic little grin. "I just wanna know what it was like, Bones. How it made you feel."  
  
The words are murmured to him, Jim's voice low and hesitant; he's shy, curious, and eager to unravel McCoy and figure him out, bit by bit. It amazes him, just how much Jim seems to want to know him.   
  
"Honestly?" McCoy asks, touching his forehead to Jim's. "First time, I liked it. It's not as if I knew I was going to end up with a handful of credits, and it was drunken, anonymous, no-strings sex. I'd never done it before, hell, I never did it again!"  
  
"Except for the second time," Jim reminds him.  
  
"That was different," McCoy says firmly, shaking his head. "I knew what I was doing. I didn't go into it thinking it was a one-night-stand!"  
  
"Did it feel different, too?" Jim is squirming in his lap, shifting around until he's kneeling over McCoy's thighs, straddling him snugly. He keeps their foreheads together, noses brushing, and plants a hand over McCoy's heart.   
  
McCoy hesitates, because his mouth has gone cottony dry, his heart is knocking insistently against his ribs, and he's not quite sure what the fuck is going on, but it's not something he's at all adverse to. He's been watching Jim since they met, and he knows the cocky bastard has been doing the same.   
  
"Yeah," he breathes, eventually. He desperately wants to kiss Jim, to lick into that full mouth, scrape that faint stubble with his teeth. But he waits. "It was different. It felt dirty, Jim, is that what you want to hear? I know this is turning you on, you oversexed ass." He rolls his eyes, but he can't keep the fondness out of his voice.   
  
He's also too distracted to be truly annoyed, because Jim's erection is rubbing against his own between them, hot and hard and tenting his soft workout pants. The friction of their clothing is making them both pant as they shift against each other, gasping and touching whatever bare skin they can reach. Not satisfied, Jim impatiently shoves him down, crawling over his body until their cocks align and keeping McCoy pinned with his legs and hands.   
  
"Oof, careful—overeager, are we?" McCoy teases dryly, biting back a moan as Jim grinds down hard against him with a swivel of his hips. "We are not ruttin' and coming in our pants like teenagers, Jim, get my underwear off—"  
  
Jim laughs, but he doesn't shift his weight. "Normally, Bones, hearing that from your mouth—God, your mouth, you've got—the most amazing lips..." He trails off as he leans down, finally,  _finally_ , and McCoy arches up, bringing their bodies flush so that he can meet Jim's kiss, can suck hard on his swollen lower lip and shove his tongue in, parting his mouth and accidentally crashing their teeth together. Jim's lips definitely aren't so bad either, when they're pink and bruised and wet.   
  
"Pants, Jim," McCoy tries again, breathless.   
  
"No, Bones, what I was going to say before your incredible cocksucker mouth distracted me is that I am so totally making you come in your pants, because this is so much better than skin to skin,  _fuck_ ," gasps Jim, in one breath.  
  
McCoy can't really argue with  _that_ , because Jim's thigh is nudging up between his legs, and he's almost as hard as Jim is, by now, precome damp on the front of his boxers. He doesn't really want to throw his underpants down the laundry chute when they're streaked with semen, but he supposes Jim does it all the damn time, so whoever has to deal with their clothing will probably just assume it belongs to him and not to McCoy.   
  
"What? Stop babbling about your shorts, Bones," Jim snorts into his ear, his nose pressing against McCoy's cheek. "And I don't appreciate the implication that I come all over myself all the time."  
  
"Well, shit, Jim, sorry," drawls McCoy, with a startled gasp as Jim arches his hips, ass in the air, and rocks hard against McCoy, dragging their cocks together. "D-didn't think you had any scruples at all, but I'm not above admitting I'm wrong."  
  
"Bull- _shit_ ," groans Jim, clutching at McCoy's shoulders for support. He's taut and trembling, and McCoy reaches to squeeze his ass, pulling him down and thrusting their hips together, trying to work them into some sort of rhythm instead of the mindless humping they're engaging in. "You hate being wrong, Bones. It makes your eyebrow twitch. More than usual, I mean."  
  
"I don't have an eyebrow tic," protests McCoy, taking advantage of the current location of his hands and pinching Jim's ass. "But if I'm starting to develop one, I can only blame  _you_."  
  
"I'm surprisingly okay with that—" Jim seems like he's about to say more, but then he's coming, first, tensing against McCoy, his long, wiry body coiling around him as he shudders. He doesn't make much noise, less than McCoy might've figured, just a short, satisfied, breathy gasp. McCoy tightens his grip on Jim's ass, holding him steady, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the lean line of Jim's exposed throat, sucking a bruise until Jim is spent.  
  
McCoy isn't too keen on just grinding against Jim now that he's come, so he shifts a bit, rolling them both over so that they're facing each other. Jim's eyes are half-closed, and he's huffing softly, not quite recovered. McCoy detaches himself so that he can actually slide a hand into his boxers and finish, because damned if Jim is going to leave him red-faced and hard, but Jim blinks at him, realizes what he's doing, and slaps—fucking  _slaps_ —his hand away.  
  
"Ow, Jim, what the  _fuck_ —" cries McCoy, ready to give the kid a retaliatory smack on the wrist, but Jim is shoving him over again, onto his back like they were before, and McCoy only figures out what he's doing a second before Jim's mouth covers him  _through his fucking shorts_  because that's exactly the sort of impulsive, frustrating,  _ridiculous_  thing Jim Kirk would do to make sure McCoy comes in his pants just like he promised.   
  
And he does, he comes not half a minute later, with Jim's mouth radiating heat through the thin material of his underwear. McCoy curls his fingers into the bed sheets, clenching his hands into fists, and his orgasm rocks through him, hot and wet and filthier than anything he ever did with a stranger.   
  
He flops back, gasping helplessly, staring at the ceiling, and then he's staring up at Jim's smiling face, his lips thoroughly fucked and slick with come, his eyes glazed with pride. "Told you," he says, smug.   
  
"That's gross, Jim," complains McCoy, because it  _is_ , his shorts are sticky and stained right through, and nobody ever likes lying in the wet spot on the mattress and now the wet spot is conveniently right there in his lap. He's never wearing these boxers again.   
  
Jim just laughs, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Normally I swallow. I'll show you later." He's kicking McCoy's bedspread off, which is a great idea because it's too warm in the room, now, especially with Jim burrowing against him like a puppy.   
  
"We could push the beds together," suggests McCoy sleepily, though by 'we' he clearly doesn't mean himself, because he's got no intention of moving, even to shimmy out of his destroyed underwear.   
  
"No, then you get that annoying dip in the middle," points out Jim, settling his head on McCoy's shoulder. "Unless that was a not-so-subtle hint that your bed is too small and you want me to get in mine instead?" His tone is carefully neutral; this is the only safe time that McCoy can back out and they'd still be able to forget this in the morning, no awkwardness or embarrassment involved.   
  
McCoy considers it, and immediately rejects the opening. "No. No, Jim, or else I would've said 'get the fuck out of my bed'."  
  
"I do trust you to be blunt," Jim concedes, and he settles down, an arm draped heavily over McCoy's belly. "Often to a painful degree."  
  
McCoy just grunts, too close to sleep to protest. There's silence for a moment, comfortable, though neither of them drift off just yet.   
  
"You'll show me later, huh?" mumbles McCoy.   
  
"If you want," offers Jim companionably. "One question, though."  
  
"Yeah?" McCoy answers through a yawn, and somehow his hand has found its way up into Jim's short hair, stroking and tugging the strands idly.   
  
"Do you still charge four hundred, flat rate? 'Cause I'm a little light."   
  
McCoy is  _pretty_  sure Jim's resulting yelp can be heard echoing all the way down the hall of the dorm, and maybe even out into the quad.


End file.
